River Run
by misscam
Summary: Grandfather, jester, savior, destroyer he's been and always still the Doctor, like a river changing its run, but still remaining a river, flowing on. Never looking back. He forgot Rose isn't like him. [NineRose, hints of TenRose. Ten POV.]


River Run  
by Camilla Sandman

Disclaimer: BBC own. I borrow.

Author's Note: This is intended as a companion piece to "Passing By". You rather do need to have read that one to make sense of this.  
For ScarlettGirl, who so dearly wanted this fic. I hadn't intended to write Ten yet since I need a few episodes to get warm on characterization, but she persisted. Blame her.

II

He's been many things over the centuries, he thinks. Grandfather, jester, savior, destroyer he's been; and always still the Doctor, like a river changing its run, but still remaining a river, flowing on. Never looking back. Hopping backwards in time and hopping forwards in time and hopping for his life, but always hopping on.

He forgot Rose isn't like him, thinking her hand so natural in his he sometimes doesn't remember she's human. Humans look back.

Looking back, she sees him.

And he's never been wise, never in any of his forms. He's taken Rose to see himself, before the change, knowing it's spectacularly bad idea and one word from her might change the world and burn everything. Risking it all because she asked. One simple question, one highly dangerous answer.

So here he is, in his TARDIS, trying to tinker with his ship and not feel jealous of himself tinkering with the TARDIS of then, unaware that Rose Tyler of now is about to pass by. It is pretty daft to be jealous of himself, and he's really trying to be less daft in this incarnation. If there's a daft quota, he's filled it. If there's a silly clothes quota, he's broken it.

The TARDIS hums and he gives her a mock glare.

"You don't have to sound like you agree."

His beautiful ship. She never has any troubles with his changes, apart from a few crash landings, which are probably meant to break him in properly. She never asks to go see any past hims.

It wasn't an unreasonable request, he tells himself, trying to reason for Rose. He didn't give her a chance for much of a goodbye and he does have fond memories of meeting her this day, of...

Oh.

She is kissing him, was kissing him, hesitantly and slightly awkwardly until he lifted a hand to her, feeling the warmth of her skin there, pressing her closer and feeling her lips grow surer in response. 

He's kissed her before - no, he'll kiss her later in that timeline, kiss the time vortex away from her and life back, but this is different, this is all her. Was, he reminds himself. Was. History, past events. He's just remembering it, but it is at the same time happening so close to him he could walk over and kiss her neck while the other him kisses her lips.

He feels his mouth go slightly dry at that.

He can remember the feel of her pressed against his chest, warm and curved and hands on his shoulders. He wonders what it would be like to hold her from behind, her back slightly arched, her head turned to the side to meet his kiss. He knows the sound she makes at the back of her throat and he can hear it in his head, echoing and he can almost hear her making it if he, if he...

He presses a hand to his ear as he remembers her mouth pressed to it, but it's not the same. It's not him, he has to remind himself. Well, it is him, but it's not him now. It's not him now lifting her, feeling her legs lock around him, kissing her until he can't remember what it's like not to, tracing her skin and remembering the feel of every inch of it, remembering...

He gulps and steadies himself against the console. He can remember it as it's happening and it almost feels like it's happening to him too, his palms burning as the other him steadies them against her hips.

Oh, Rose, he thinks. This was such a bad, bad idea. And still he let her. He loved her. He loves her. She hasn't asked him if it's possible to change since the first time, even if he can see the question in her eyes sometimes. And always, he has to reflect the same answer back at her.

'I can't. I'm sorry. I wish you wouldn't ask.'

He wonders sometimes if he would if it was possible, but he always end up at the same answer. Yes, even as it would hurt and he'd know she didn't really love him, not as all he could be. Somewhere deep inside him, in the memories of what he was, there is a strange joy at that thought. That possibly she loves him, and only him, silly ears and all.

If he closes his eyes, if he looks back, he can see her in his memories through the eyes he had; see her cling to him, her cheeks flustered, so much love in her eyes until she closes them and he touches - touched! - her eyelids and he wants her to open them again, look at him, less ears and more hair and whisper his name as she goes limp.

It is still his name, he thinks. It was his name she whispered. Different hands that steadied her, different chest she rested her head against, but still his name.

Still the Doctor.

He eases his grip on the sonic screwdriver, finally realising he's been clutching it so hard his hand hurts. He can feel a trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades and his breath definitely feel ragged, almost as if he's been there with them. Almost wants to have been, too. The memories of it he intends to cling onto until time is dust, but he wants more, he wants her fingers in his new hair, her lips on his neck, her eyes shining at him, him, him.

'You are a selfish one,' he whispers in his mind, and it's the echoes of what he was. 'At least she's still with you.'

She is. She's coming back, she's coming; he can remember saying goodbye to her, one last kiss, her face with such an expression of grief he wanted to hold her forever, and her final whispered words, her running steps echoing away, leaving him, coming to him.

The doors open and she stands there, the grief he remembers on her face, her lips swollen from his kisses, her hair a mess and still so beautiful. For a moment, the thought that she's mourning him and seeking comfort in him at the same time seems strangely absurd. About as absurd as feelings jealous of himself. 

"Rose," he says and then she's in his arms, face burrowed into his chest and everything else seems so trivial and unimportant. She's Rose and she's hurting and as long as he's the Doctor, whatever hair or ears, he will always have a ready embrace. 

"Doctor," she whispers, and she's still warm and curves pressed against him and it's still his name she whispers. Still her lips softly greeting his as he kisses her once, careful and comforting and hopeful and he thinks maybe, maybe one day he will know the feel of her skin against his skin now. Still her fingers laced in his, her hand so natural in his he sometimes doesn't remember she isn't Gallifreyan. Time Lords look forward.

Looking forward, he sees her.

Oh Rose, he thinks. It's going to be hopping fantastic, just you wait. Still Rose Tyler and the Doctor, after all, and a whole Universe to run through.

Just you wait. 

FIN


End file.
